


I Summon You

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unlike Zach, something just won't let Chris stay in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Summon You

_Got the weight of the world  
I summon you here, my love_  
Spoon

 

"He stole my hat."

Zach doesn't looks away from the television as he flips channels, feet propped on the coffee table. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke hangs heavy throughout the living room; Zach is not a believer in going out to his fire escape to smoke, even though it's about five feet away from the sofa.

Chris huffs and continues looking through the little mound of clothes on the floor of the spare bedroom, which all made the journey from the suitcase to his body to the ground. It already looks like he's moved in and made himself at home.

"Seriously," he says, after another few minutes of searching. "He stole my fucking hat."

"Pardon?" Zach asks, finally tearing his gaze away from the television. "What hat?"

"You know, my gray newsboy-ish cap? My hat."

They peer at each other through the open doorways that separate the guest bedroom from the living room, where Zach sits, blinking slowly. He shrugs one shoulder and sits up, reaching for the open pack of cigarettes on the table.

"Good. It was ugly, anyway."

"It was _mine_." Chris stands, looking around and scratching the back of his head. "Why would he do that?"

"Gee whiz, I don't know. Is that really what you're worried about right now? We'll get you another one. Another ridiculous hat. That you can look stupid in. Now come here and watch _Living Single_ reruns with me."

Chris rolls his eyes and checks the pile for underwear, socks, T-shirts. Everything's accounted for, all except the goddamn hat. He rubs at his eyes and then grabs the clothes in clumps, dumping them haphazardly into his suitcase, smacking the folds of fabric to lay flat. Then he goes to the bathroom, fetches his toothbrush and throws it on top.

Zach doesn't notice that Chris is all packed up until he rolls his suitcase into the living room. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Chris shrugs his sweater on and grabs his carry-on bag from the armchair, heading to the front door. Zach puffs on his lit cigarette, giving Chris that Zach Look that he doesn't want to see. "Chris," he says, warningly. Chris ignores him as he steps out into the hall.

"I'm going to get my fucking hat back." He moves to shut the door. "I'll call you."

Then he goes.

*

When Chris steps off the plane, he's got four texts waiting for him.

 _you should be glad he didn't take your tighty whities. assboy._

 _seriously, tho. do you even know what you're doing?_

 _how. long. is your fucking flight. jesus. call. me. already._

 _I've got your hat._

He licks his lips and walks with purpose toward the baggage claim.

*

It's all too easy to acclimate to a coast without palm trees, even only after a few days. They look fake from the inside of the cab, standing stock still without any breeze to sway them. Already, Chris misses the chilly breezes of New York, just cold enough to remind him that this is a planet that experiences weather from time to time. They kept him in a thick sweater for his entire stay, even though the rest of the city had already deemed it summer, people everywhere walking the streets in T-shirts and shorts, and not much else. He loved every underdressed jackass sitting out in the park, soaking up the sunshine while it lasted—every nameless person doing his or her own thing, who didn't care to know him.

Zach texts him again and he ignores it, placing a phone call instead. It rings four times before someone answers.

"Which side of the country are you on?"

Chris laughs and bites the tip of his thumb. "The side containing my hat."

"If you ever want to see it again, you'll have to answer three questions."

"For crying out loud. Okay, hit me."

"One: how did Zach get so much fucking furniture so quickly?"

Chris smirks, reaching over to roll down his window. "He's a gay. He knows other gays. They have powers. Next?" He looks up at the driver. "Hey, mind if I smoke in here?"

"Nah, go 'head, buddy," comes the reply. Chris nods and lights up.

"Okay. Second question: can I bum a cigarette?"

"Maybe." He takes a long drag, blowing his smoke out the window. "If you tell me where you are."

"Hmm."

There's a small pause, during which Chris squints and waits uneasily. He thinks he has some idea of what the last question could be, but he doesn't want to get ahead of himself—doesn't dare to presume he knows what's happening here.

This is either the most romantic thing he's ever done or the dumbest. Possibly both.

"Last question?" he asks, flicking ash into the open air. A few flakes scatter over the dark exterior of the car, leaving a starry pattern.

"Right." A quick beat. "What exactly happened back there? You know...in New York."

Chris nearly coughs on the smoke from his cigarette, sucking in a sharp breath. He tilts his head back against the sticky leather of the seat and shuts his eyes, as if the answer will emerge from the dark. But all he can see is the bright white of John's free-spirited smile; the reflection of restaurant candlelight in his eyes as another round of drinks arrives; the light scrape of his blunt fingernails on Chris' scalp, reaching beneath the ridiculous hat before traveling elsewhere, lower. John's lips stuttering warm breath against Chris' fingers, struggling to hold back a moan so they don't wake Zach in the next room.

"Fuck if I know. But whatever it was, it dragged me along on a three-thousand mile trip."

It's good enough. Chris gets an address and he grabs the driver's shoulder so suddenly that the car almost swerves headfirst into a telephone pole.

*

It's an old movie theater that shows mostly second runs, one that Chris hasn't frequented in ages. It's smells of stale popcorn and piss, the floors sticky with god knows what and the seats made of creaky, ancient metal. Chris used to enjoy coming here, but he hardly ever makes time now for the things he truly loves.

John sits in the back row, nibbling on a Twizzler and watching the film—something that stars Zooey Deschanel as a quirky chanteuse. He's got Chris' hat perched on the tip of his index finger; he twirls it tauntingly, like a homing beacon. The only other person in the room is an old man nodding off in one of the rows near the front. Chris keeps to the back; he swipes the hat and places it securely on John's head.

"You should keep it," he says. "It looks better on you."

John rolls his eyes. "Well, duh. That was basically my point all along."

"Oh, yes, of course." Chris reaches into the Twizzler packet and pulls two out. "Plus, I've got another one."

"Oh, great. Now we'll be twins."

"Well." Chris smirks and nudges John's shoulder. "You could have taken a pair of underwear or something."

John turns to look at him and laughs, his breath scented with sugar and that peculiar red flavor that isn't quite strawberry or any other fruit found in nature. "Because your skid marks are so romantic," he murmurs.

Chris can't help but lean in and kiss the corner of John's mouth, briefly licking inside and taking some of that sugar for himself. John answers with a soft, delicate sound that sounds just as good here as it did in New York. Chris wants to pluck it from the air and hold it between thumb and forefinger. He wants to let it vibrate a while longer, let it sing.

"You didn't need a memento," he whispers. "I was always going to come back."

"Yeah." John lifts his brow disbelievingly. "Like Zach said he'd come back. You love it there as much as he does."

Chris exhales and tips his head against John's shoulder, the way he did in the restaurant and again before he and John fell asleep in Zach's spare bed, pressed against each other, because he can. The man sitting in the front of the theater snuffles and shifts in his sleep, but neither Chris nor John move an inch.

"Nah," Chris says, shaking his head. "Wasn't really my scene. I'm more of a sunburn and paparazzi sort of guy."

And when John laughs knowingly and settles a hand on Chris' knee, Chris thinks that Zach can have New York—can keep the shedding trees and cool air, the uncaring faces, all of it. It's nice to get away for a few days, now and then, but Chris will always answer the summons that beckons him right here.


End file.
